In Which Swan Gets Kicked Out in The Cold
by vondiehaus
Summary: Part I of "In Which The Author's Had a Tad Too Much To Drink", in which the author will proceed to put surrealism to paper.


In Which Swan Gets Kicked Out in The Cold

A/N – Part I of "In Which The Author's Had a Tad Too Much To Drink", in which the author will proceed to put surrealism to paper.

And in her haste she thought of nought but to kiss those lips, ever tempting, just a breath's width out of reach. In her breathlessness she closed that gap and kissed and kissed, until the air around had turned to tar, tar, the black of cruelty thrust upon her not long ago. And she found that the writhing and the heaving beneath her propelled her to newer places and that now she sought only to please the one whom she'd only willed scorn. And her parting lips set sail to further lands, and she found new heights, mirroring in their suppleness, and a valley of the color of burnt wheat. And therein she dwelled. How could she not, when her lips had been so very welcomed, a violent request that they stayed issued by a fist in her hair, by a gasping breath right up north, by a coiling leg farther South. Refuse them, she could not. She, dwell she did and her curious tongue explored and caressed, and her eager hands tightened their hold on them faraway hips. But the time came to move on, and she fought and she scraped and she bit and the fist all but let go, and the legs, they uncoiled, yet the gasps would not go. So she went farther down, parted lips trailing fast,

and a halt!

…halted locomotion in the journey, them fists back with a vengeance and her head reclaimed again to further heights, where lips of quivering shine all but met her own and then

a pause…

…a stealing pause, a single whoosh breath and mind had stole. And eyes were set ablaze, and blood was set aflame. _Pluh, pluh, pluh_ speeding up a coachman in his tardiness, speeding _pluhpluhpluh_ through their veins. And down she went, and there! A cunt! Alive and pulsing, the red of life! Red as her tongue! Red as her lips, parted in indecision. To touch or not to touch. That unwelcomed indecision brought to a dead in its tracks by the fist, our ever-present f(r)iend. And the craning of her neck brought her back to the demand of the eyes. Clearer a demand was never issued.

So, life was met with life, both quivering and seeking and seeking an ingenious exploration. Explore they did. What comes of this harsh contact? Oh, there it is, the moan. And of this light pulsion? Oh, there you go, a gasp. And in this ever-speeding questioning a fist was clenched, a very sore scalp protested, a very tired jaw screamed in victory and life, as it often does, squirmed and pulsed and blushed the ever reddening blush of blooming brides.

a pause, if I may.

And a sigh. Air rushing in, air sneaking out. And an expecting, "You're not gonna kick me out, right? I mean, it' freezing out there." was then heard. And it was drenched in hope and pregnant with promises aplenty. And hope, it did stretch. It stretched until it had sloshed against the corners of the room, until it had left tidemarks on the squeaky legs of the bed and other assorted furniture. It, as it often does, expected the unexpected and the expected all but dread.

And then out of the stupor of tranquility —motion.

…a slowing down of rhythm —of breath. A slumping. And then, a ruffling. And suddenly the bed space seemed eternal. And a hand reached elegantly for the cigarettes over the window sill. And then there was a flash of fire in the semidarkness and a minute's illumination of a scar over the cigarette and higher up, one eyelash, and then the other.

And a drag. In, in, in, in syncopation: one, two, three, one, two three.

And there it is, the squinting of those dark, dark eyes and the leaning of that oh so enticing figure on the aforementioned sill. And a slow, slow drag of the fag (one, two, three; one, two, three) and she wondered briefly how long that breath could be held underwater. Silly, silly things her mind though... and then

a pause,

And smoke and rasper curl around the "Should you not have thought of that when you refused to get the heater on that death-trap-you-insist-on-calling-a-car fixed, Miss Swan?"


End file.
